


Once Upon A Time

by ygrainette



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Brienne is a BAMF, F/F, Female Friendship, Femslash, Femslash February, Fluff, and Sansa is wounded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne finds Sansa, pale and bedraggled and fleeing the Vale, and from that moment her life is never the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon A Time

**Author's Note:**

> My second offering for Femslash February.  
> I ship this ship to an unreal extent.  
> Low on details because the plot of ASOIAF is so ridiculously complicated I don't even want to get into working out the logistics of how this fic would come about.
> 
> Content note/trigger warning: mild allusions to sexual abuse.  
> [The associated drawing.](http://capricorn-child.tumblr.com/image/43839811638)
> 
> I love comments with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

When Brienne finds Sansa Stark fleeing the Vale on foot, auburn hair a river of tangles and knots around her terror-white face, when she picks up the younger girl, too overcome with fear and exhaustion to stand, when she looks down at the maid she has spent so long searching for –

She loses a little something.

Something dislodges, something she can't even name, something tender and raw slipping out through a chink in the armour she wears on the inside. The piece of her heart that belonged to Renly Baratheon, the piece of her faith that she gave to Catelyn Stark, the piece of her pride that she owes to Jaime Lannister –

Something she needs, something she needs to go on being _herself_ , and for that to be someone she can bear – she loses it. It's not within herself anymore. It's not there.

She'd always imagined feeling triumph at this moment, at finding the maid she's been seeking, and seeking, and seeking, until it seemed like this quest, this quest for a fool or an oath-keeper (she's never quite sure) was all that was left in the world. She'd pictured joy, and pride, and certainty, that everything would fall into place. Brienne, the eternal outsider, no lady and no warrior, would be vindicated. Would know who she was, where to go. The lifelong feeling of being lost and wandering would vanish.

But here she is, with Sansa Stark in her arms, beautiful to be sure, but too-thin, too-pale, too-weary, head lolling in a dead faint, and she feels just as lost. Just as empty as ever.

Something's missing.

Then Sansa Stark's eyes flutter open, copper-lashed and ice-blue, and her lips part, and in a voice that threatens to break, she says, "Thank you."

And Brienne has found it.

* * *

It is awkward at first. Sansa has wrapped a cloak of ice around herself, her distant courtesy all she has to hold herself together. Brienne, who is no stranger to rebuff, rejection, cruelty, withdraws in turn. They ride together, Sansa with her arms wrapped about Brienne's waist, and they say nothing to one another beyond the barest of necessities.

That first night, Brienne dare not risk an inn, not with the Lord Protector searching for his absconded ward. It shames her more than she can say to ask Lady Stark – as she already thinks of Sansa, fifteen or no, she is a lady to the bone – to sleep rough, like an outlaw on the ground.

Yet the girl makes no complaint, sits next to her at the side of the campfire, and as night draws in rests her head on Brienne's shoulder and sings softly. Her voice is high and pure, somehow puts Brienne in mind of the silver spray from the waves breaking at Evenfall.

They sleep under furs, pressed together for warmth.

* * *

Raiders from the hill tribes attack them the next day, but they are only a group of four, untrained and undisciplined. They have weapons, better than one would credit from unwashed savages, but Brienne has Valyrian steel, and none comes within three feet of Lady Stark.

When they have moved on far enough that Brienne feels safe to stop, Sansa dabs at her cuts with boiled wine and a piece of rag. "You are so brave, my lady," she breathes, eyes wide with awe.

Brienne blushes, says nothing. This girl – so fair, so soft-spoken, so perfect a lady – must surely despise her for a freak. All the other women and girls Brienne has known have been such, have mocked and derided and pitied her – all but for Lady Catelyn.

That thought brings a pang, and she blurts, "I promised your lady mother I would keep you safe. Defend you from all harm."

Sansa bites her lip. "My lady mother is dead," she says, barely more than a whisper.

"I swore an oath." And Brienne unsheathes her sword, holds it out towards the trembling girl, and says, "This sword – it's called Oathkeeper. It was made from Lord – from your father's sword. And I would swear it to you, my lady. If you would have me."

There are tears in Sansa Stark's eyes, and her hands are shaking, and she says, "I would be honoured," and no sooner than Brienne has sheathed the blade, the girl throws her arms around her neck, clings to her tighter than Brienne has ever been held, and starts to cry. She sobs into Brienne's shoulder for what seems like forever, until Brienne's awkwardness is lost and she simply strokes the red curls and hugs her back, until she has cried out everything she has suffered in all these long years.

Brienne picks her up again, eyes swollen and reddened, and helps her back up on to the horse, and now when they ride, they talk.

* * *

It is Sansa who kisses Brienne first, in the room they have bought at a wayside inn.

They have both bathed, Sansa's hair hanging down her back, a long wet rope, her feet bare and pink curled up under her on the bed, Brienne's hair fluffy and forming spikes on the top of her head, her muscles aching as she stretches them out. She always feels self conscious like this, her men's smallclothes revealing the brutish width of her shoulders, the brawn of her arms. It is hard not to feel like an ass, ugly and clumsily-made, when Sansa sits across the room in her slip, slim yet with more of a figure than Brienne could ever hope to have.

Even so, the smile on Sansa's face, the warmth in her ice-eyes, as she reaches out her hand to Brienne, kneads her aching shoulders – the self consciousness fades in comparison.

Normally, they say goodnight, and then Sansa puts out the candle at the bedside, and they fall asleep side-by-side.

This time, before Brienne knows what is happening, Sansa's hands are on her face, and they are kissing.

When Brienne pulls away, Sansa is crimson-cheeked and looks stricken. "I'm –I'm sorry, I shouldn't – didn't you –"

Brienne puts a finger to her lips to quieten her. "Just – I don't want you to think – I don't want to take advantage –"

Sansa's face is so open, her voice so raw, it all but breaks Brienne's heart. "You're not. Littlefinger, he was, he did things I didn't want – but this, it's not like that." She takes Brienne's hand, rests it over her heart. "You ... I want you, Brienne, you're the only one that makes me feel right. Safe."

And then they kiss again, and she is soft and warm and lemon-tasting under Brienne's lips. And Brienne thinks, _yes, this, this is what I have been missing._

* * *

Once upon a time, Sansa believed in songs, in ballads of maidens fair and beautiful princes and faithful husbands and true knights and honourable lords.

Then she opened her eyes, saw the world as it truly was, and thought she would never believe in anything again.

Her prince was a monster, a depraved tyrant she watched die and never even grieved.

Her husband was brother to those who murdered her family, and would barely even look at her.

Her knight, her Florian, was a drunkard and a craven who had abandoned her.

Her lord, who had spirited her away from King's Landing and promised to protect her, was a liar and a murderer and a manipulator who stalked her footsteps and stole her kisses and her name.

She had spent so long imagining her future, the man who would sweep her away, handsome and true, faithful and proud and gentle. Then she had spent so long with her heart frozen inside her, not bearing to hope or dream for anything better.

Now, she sits up in bed, and looks at Brienne of Tarth.

The lady-knight is no one Sansa would ever have day-dreamed of as a girl. But when she had been a girl, she had dreamed of Joffrey.

She strokes Brienne's face, and when the older woman kisses her hand, gazing up at her with eyes like Winterfell's winter roses, she feels like she is at home for the first time since she left the North. And she knows Brienne of Tarth is her true knight.


End file.
